


The List

by GraceHolmes, redonpointe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Protective Mycroft, Recreational Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 15:24:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9078604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraceHolmes/pseuds/GraceHolmes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/redonpointe/pseuds/redonpointe
Summary: Sherlock's list had an origin. Where he wrote down everything he'd taken. An agreement based on history, experience, and a promise made between brothers. It was designed to save his life when he ultimately overdosed. One-shot of Sherlock and Mycroft in the TAB flashback.





	

Sherlock had been nineteen at the time. He'd been experimenting recreationally with various drugs for about a year at this point, if only to put to rest his worst enemy. It was the high that he craved. The feeling of complete euphoria. Or perhaps the feeling of numbness. He took the highs and the lows, needing variety and difference even in his drug use.

But one day he miscalculated. Or perhaps the blend from the dealer had been different than he anticipated. Or perhaps it was the fact he mixed his drugs in a different way. He was nothing if not experimental, gambling with his own life in order to achieve what he wanted.

He was on a dirty mattress in a drug den just a hop and a skip away from his university, candles lighting the otherwise dark and dank room. And he was lost in the fog of the cocktail he took. Heroin and cocaine together packed quite a punch, especially as he'd injected it several times already that night.

But in the back of his mind, he knew. This last one was too much. When the high started it's unfortunate and untimely descent, Sherlock began to hurt. His chest tightened, and his stomach hurled. His brain already calculated that another hit would likely kill him. If he wasn't headed there already.

His shaking fingers reached for a broken pencil and scrap of paper, fallen out from God-knows which of the dozens of passed out or sleeping junkies in the place.

 _How much had he taken? Milligrams. Dosages. When? How many times had it been already._ His brain struggled through the pain as he scratched out a list on the yellowing paper.

Mycroft found Sherlock much too late, walking briskly past flickering lights and half illuminated alleys. He'd been searching for hours by then, after a visit to his dorm room yielded only a messy bed and scattered clues of his whereabouts.

Living so close to each other, Mycroft made it a point to check in on his younger brother every few weeks. Concern was near constant. He was still young, all of twenty-six years old and busy with new responsibilities, but he knew his brother struggled more than he did. When he could and when Sherlock would let him, Mycroft made sure he ate and slept. Made sure he was coping to the best of his ability.

He'd never experienced fear like he had that night, when he'd found himself pacing Sherlock's room in hopes he would return sooner rather than later. He didn't know where he'd run off to. Didn't know what could've happened to him in the time between visits. He'd finally given up on waiting and raced out the door, putting that gnawing panic aside and his brilliant mind to use. Calling in favors and running down promising leads.

The drug den was dark, cold and and the smell of it stung his nose. Bleary eyes followed his progress through the building, long legs stretching over splayed bodies and tattered mattresses. His heart caught in his throat when he finally spotted Sherlock's familiar frame, and before he'd registered his body moving, he was crouching beside him on the dirty floor.

He touched his shoulder, brows furrowed in confusion. "Sherly?"

Sherlock barely registered Mycroft's presence until he felt a hand on his shoulder. He wanted another hit, almost sure that'd make the pain go away. Everything drifted away after all. He hurt, but was surprised that it wasn't worse.

"Mmyy?" He groaned out the nickname and his too thin frame curled in on itself. His sweaty hair plastered into the cushion on which his head lay. His fingers crushed the list in his hand and his stomach hurled again. He didn't know what to say. If this really was Mycroft, and not a hallucination, then his secret was found out. He'd fooled his brother for many months now. Fooled him that he was doing well, that he wasn't doing something like this. Hardly the first time, he'd been keeping secrets from Mycroft for years. But now he was found out. Mycroft wouldn't understand, he never struggled like this. Then again, if he died of an overdose, his secret would be found out as well.

He pinched his eyes closed and expelled a short breath, shaking under the effects of the crash. "My, mmon't'feel well."

Mycroft Holmes wasn't used to helplessness. He was a man of answers and solutions and strategy. He was a thinker, and yet staring at his little brother, curled on his side and in the grip of something beyond his understanding, all Mycroft could muster up were questions. When had all this started? And why? And how had he not noticed? How had he been so blind and negligent with the life he'd sworn to protect when he'd been all of seven years old?

Sherlock was hurting— _dying_ , for all he knew—and he hadn't done a thing to stop it. He discarded his coat and scarf, sweeping Sherlock's sweaty curls away from his forehead with a shaky hand before he took a seat on the mattress. "You're going to be," he said quietly. "I am going to see to it myself, you hear me Sherly? Tell me what this is so I can help you."

Sherlock didn't want Mycroft's help. Not really. Not from his addiction. He'd finally found something that worked. It would either focus him, pressing him up to greater heights. Or it would calm his ever racing mind and alleviate the ever present boredom. Either way, he needed it. He slipped up though. He needed help if he wasn't going to die there on that dirty cushion in a drug den. Death wasn't on his to do list, not right then. He focused his thoughts on the present, on Mycroft's presence, the weight on the mattress, on the smells and sounds, on Mycroft's voice. _Focus, Sherlock_.

His voice came out weakly, with shallow breath. "Took...too much...mis-miscalculated. Need...this..."

Sherlock's body shook, but he uncurled his fingers of his left hand. The list slid to the dirty mattress. He had to curl up on himself again as his stomach spun in circles and his chest tightened.

Mycroft reached over to take the list, smoothing out the crumpled paper to read its contents. He had to squint his eyes, but candlelight was enough to make out that handwriting he knew so well, even if it was messier than he was used to. Sherlock's handwriting, and a list that read more like a death sentence than anything else.

 _Miscalculation_ didn't seem like a fitting word. Alarmed blue eyes shot to his brother, even as the full implications of what might very well happen if they didn't leave right away set off alarm bells in his head. As inexperienced with the area as he was, he knew all too well what his brother was going through was an overdose.

He sprung from the mattress, stuffing the paper into his pocket before he donned his coat, haphazardly throwing the scarf around his neck. He crouched to pull Sherlock's thin frame into his arms. "We're going to the hospital, Sherly. Now, and I need you to stay with me until we get there. Can you do that?"

"Mmmkay." Sherlock didn't want to go to hospital, but he didn't fight Mycroft. His body was in rough shape, back in his mind he knew he needed it otherwise he was going to die. The feeling of impending death was enough for him to come along quietly. His anxiety was rising and he wanted to push it back down. Morphine, heroin, something…He felt odd, a numbness in his limbs, and his fingers curled into fists.

"Sorry," he breathed out the word. Moments later his body convulsed in Mycroft's arms. _Seizure._ It'd only last just over a minute, but to Sherlock it'd be one of the longest and highest anxiety-inducing minutes of his life. Semi-conscious and partially aware, but having no control over his spasming limbs and short circuiting brain.

Mycroft did calculations in his head as he carried Sherlock out of the building. Cab routes and hospitals and traffic at this time of night. Anything that would shorten the time and distance to the one place that might potentially save his brother's life.

He'd never been so scared in his life. Struggling to keep a hold of his brother's body while hailing a cab. Checking to see if he was breathing. Making sure he didn't hurt himself or choke.

Seconds, minutes or hours later, they were in a cab and on their way to the nearest hospital. He kept repeating the same words over and over, as if through will and words alone he convince Sherlock's body to right itself. "Stay with me, Sherly. You're going to be okay."

Sherlock floated in and out of consciousness. He seized once more on the way, thankfully that one lasted considerably shorter, and dry heaved. Every time he flickered back to being awake, he focused on his brother's voice. He didn't have time to ponder what Mycroft was going through. He didn't have time to think about the fact he would be considered a disappointment. He didn't feel guilty. He didn't need help for _this_.

He did need medical help though, he did need a support that his brother was. As the cab zipped down the streets of London, Sherlock leaned heavily on Mycroft's shoulder.

"We're just about there, mate," the cabbie checked the mirror and pressured the gas a bit more as he veered into the ambulance bay at the closest A&E. The taxi came to a screeching halt.

Sherlock jostled with the movement, groaning quietly as his body rebelled again. "Mmdon't wanna go. You're…bossy."

"You need bossy right now, Sherly. Please... don't put up a fight," Mycroft replied, tossing more money than was necessary at the cabbie before he pushed his way out of the car. He reached back inside to help Sherlock to his feet, sliding an arm around his back just underneath his shoulder blades. Once he was tucked securely to his side, he all but carried him through glass doors that opened for them automatically. He had very specific memories about hospitals, none of them pleasant, and his heart rose to his throat, nearly choking his voice as he called out for help.

Sherlock's head lulled, dropping away from Mycroft. His chest hurt and there was a weird throbbing in his head. There had to be a reason for that. He didn't have time to contemplate it before he lost consciousness.

Nurses and aids came running as soon as Mycroft stepped in the door crying for help. And they got to work even faster as soon as they realized Sherlock's heart had stopped. The minutes following cardiac arrest were the most critical, and everyone flew into a well practiced flurry. As soon as Sherlock was pulled onto a bed, a nurse backed Mycroft out of the room to give everyone else room to work.

"Sir, stay back. We'll take care of him."

Mycroft's footsteps were heavy as he backed out of the room, like he was walking through cement. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the motionless form of his brother. Couldn't wrap his brilliant brain around what was happening. He was lost and scared and he'd never felt so young and small in his life.

"Sir, there's a waiting room down this hallway…" Some beeping, noises, and brown eyes trying to get him to focus. "Are you… paperwork needs…"

He heard the words as if from far away, and turned to in the direction he was pointed towards without consciously deciding to do so. Later he'd come to the conclusion that this was shock, but now the thought was far from his mind. He wasn't sure where to go, except forward. Wasn't sure what to do or who to call.

He walked right past the waiting room, out the glass doors of the A&E, and didn't make it father than a potted plant before he braced himself against the wall and heaved the contents of his stomach inside. When that seemed to clear the fog, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his mouth while he worked through his next steps.

He called his parents first, after some internal debate of bothering them on their trip. This was the sort of thing they needed to know, and even if it wasn't the case… he couldn't do this without them. His voice broke halfway through his explanation, but he managed to get out all the facts and a confirmation that they'd take the first available flight home. Once that was done, he was back to that same hollow, empty feeling of _'What do I do now?'_

He retraced his steps to the waiting room, taking a seat tucked into a corner and wrapping himself up in his coat. With the TV blaring something or other he wasn't concerned with, he closed his eyes to pray for the first time in over a decade.

Naloxone, fluids, more drugs, intubation, lab tests, drug screen. The list of the steps it took to save Sherlock's life was long. They had to restart his heart twice more. And the doctor used the list of what Sherlock took as a jump start to fixing him. They flushed his system, pumped him full of more drugs, and ensured his body wouldn't shut down.

Overdosed junkies are par for the course for hospital staff. They work hard, they do their job, they save the life. Because it's not the first one. Nor will it be the last. But it is someone's brother. It's someone's son.

Sherlock was admitted to the ICU and it wasn't until the next day where he was able to be taken off of life support to breathe on his own. He woke up into a fog, quickly falling back asleep. Eventually, when he found consciousness again he realized where he was. What had happened. His brilliant brain picked it up too quickly, even in the fog that was whatever non-narcotic pain killer he was on. His chest hurt though, cracked ribs from chest compressions. His throat hurt from the respiratory tube. "Th-sty," he groaned as he blinked his eyes open, weakly calling for whatever poor nurse or sod happened to be there.

The poor sod happened to be Mycroft, sporting two days worth of stubble and bags under his eyes, but still, clean clothes. He closed his book, shot up from the chair he'd been living in and poured a glass of water for his brother.

While he'd been waiting for Sherlock to wake up, he'd been keeping his parents up to date. Making all the necessary arrangements to see to his brother's care once he was out of the hospital and attempting not to lose his mind in the process. He was tired, and once the initial relief of Sherlock's survival had subsided, a hollowness had taken over his insides. Fear, guilt and panic had been taking up too much space in Mycroft's body.

He took Sherlock's hand and pressed the plastic cup into his palm. "You look like death. How are you feeling?"

"Not dead," Sherlock wheezed. He took a long drink of water before he ended up coughing again, sputtering a bit of the liquid over his stubbled chin. The empty plastic cup dropped from his hand and landed on his blanketed lap. He let it fall and just relaxed into the hospital bed again. But his clear blue, and somewhat bloodshot, eyes stayed open and trained on Mycroft. "You look like death's brother," he quipped weakly. "And you need to shave. It's been a day and a half since you brought me in, judging by the stubble. What are you doing here?"

Mycroft snatched up the empty cup. "What do you mean 'what am I doing here'? You're in hospital. You overdosed and nearly died. Where else was I going to be?" He set the cup down on the table beside the bed and retrieved a paper towel to wipe his brother's chin. His hands were gentle but his face was grim hiding the relief and worry underneath. "I called mum and dad, but they haven't managed to find a flight out yet. It's just the two of us for now."

Sherlock didn't really protest the treatment, but he made a face. Oblivious to whatever emotion his brother might have been feeling. There was a distinct lack of guilt in any feeling himself, rather determination and stubbornness. He was so convinced he was doing what he needed. He wouldn't stop, not even after this little trip. The drugs helped him as nothing else could. "You needn't have bothered them, in fact…you shouldn't have. Mummy's going to fuss. I'm fine. It was just a miscalculation." He closed his eyes. "'t'won't happen again."

"A miscalculation that landed you right at death's door," Mycroft snapped, blue eyes suddenly blazing to life. "You may not care what happens to you, Sherly, but _we_ do. You could've died on that filthy mattress if I'd been any later, and all I would've found was a corpse. You could've _died in my arms_ on the cab ride here. I won't lose you to this, you hear me? I won't."

Sherlock's eyes had shot open as Mycroft snapped at him, effectively startling him from sleeping any time soon. He never had liked getting snapped at, but his brain couldn't find any deductions to deflect with. He was left with feelings he didn't understand and an 'addiction' he knew he'd need to hide. "Sorry," he mumbled out, adverting his eyes to stare at his feet. _"But_ I didn't die, obviously. You're still stuck with stupid little me. Okay?"

Mycroft tossed the used paper towels into the rubbish bin and scrubbed a hand over his scruffy face. He was doing this all wrong, and yet he could find no other way to say the things he needed to say. Whether it was tiredness, inexperience or just the emotional strain of almost losing a brother, he couldn't quite rein himself in. "You are not stupid, even if your actions would suggest such a thing." He sighed and dropped his hand, turning to brace himself against the side of Sherlock's bed. "I just don't understand."

"That's a first," Sherlock replied dryly, coughing just once before he spoke again. "What don't you understand? What I was doing? I scribbled it out for you, surely you can read. As for the why, I was alleviating the incessant and crushing boredom I am plagued with. That shouldn't be that hard to understand."

Mycroft's shoulders sagged, like he was carrying the weight of the world on them. "What I don't understand is you gambling with your life this way, without any thought to the possible consequences for the rest of us, should the worst happen," he answered, but even as he said it he knew the argument would have little effect on his brother. "I am going to help you through this, Sherlock. I will find something for you to help with the boredom, but _this_ needs to stop. Here, today."

Sherlock turned his face away, moping like a child who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "No," he said. "You can't make me. You didn't even know about it until you started poking around in my routine. I will admit you saved my life, but I don't need saving from _this_." 

"Yes, you do," Mycroft insisted. "You say I can't make you quit, and maybe I can't. But it won't be for lack of trying. I'm not going to turn a blind eye to this and risk losing you again, Sherly. I am your brother, and it's my job to protect you. Even when that means protecting you from yourself."

And Mycroft would honor that promise for many years to come. Whatever doss house, back alley or shadowy corner he found his brother in, he'd pick him up and haul him back to safety. Whatever the cost.


End file.
